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The horse sound seemed nearer. He concentrated, listening, until he was sure that it was only one horse coming. One rider. One helper for Vern.
Cable pushed up with one hand, trying to see the meadow over the trees below him, but he could see only the far side of the meadow and the willows marking the river and the dark, quiet, cool-looking slope beyond. The rider would be close to this side by now.
Cable’s gaze fell, and held.
Vern Kidston was facing him. Vern not thirty feet away, one leg in the gully, half sitting, half kneeling at the edge of it and partly hidden by the brush. Vern with his revolver extended and watching him.
Neither of them moved. They stared in silence with cocked revolvers pointed at each other. Cable sitting with one hand behind him, the other holding the Colt on his thigh, his face calm and showing clearly in the sunlight that filtered through the trees. Vern’s expression, though partly shadowed and solemn with his mustache covering the corners of his mouth, was as relaxed as Cable’s. The tension was somewhere between them, waiting for one or the other to move. And as the silence lengthened, it seemed that even a spoken word would pull a trigger.
It was in Vern’s tone when finally he said, “Cable,” and waited, as if expecting a reaction.
“I could have killed you,” he said then. “I had my gun on you and you were looking away… Why didn’t I?”
Cable said nothing.
“I could have ended it right then. But I didn’t. Do you know why?” He waited again. “I’m asking you.”
Cable shook his head, though he saw Vern as he had seen him two days ago-a small figure against the front sight of his Spencer-and remembered how he had not been able to pull the trigger. He had thought about it enough and knew the reason why he had held back; but it was not a clear reason; only a feeling and it might be a different feeling with each man. What did Vern feel? At the same time, what difference did it make? Vern had not been able to pull the trigger when he had the chance, and knowing that was enough. But it would be different with him now, Cable thought, just as it’s different with you. The feeling wouldn’t apply or hold either of them back at this point.
Tell him anyway, Cable thought; and he said, “I had my sights on you once. The same thing happened. Though I’m not sure I’d let it happen again.”
“When was that?”
“Two days ago. You were with Lorraine.”
“Why didn’t you shoot?”
“It takes some explaining,” Cable said. “And I’m not sure it makes sense when you say it out loud.”
Vern nodded faintly. “Maybe it’s called leaving it up to the other man.”
“I didn’t start this,” Cable said flatly. “I don’t feel obliged to keep it going either.”
“But you’ll finish what you can,” Vern said. “What about Austin-he’s dead?”
Cable nodded.
“I didn’t think you’d have a chance with him.”
“Neither did he,” Cable said. “That’s why he’s dead.”
“So you killed all three of the Dodd brothers, and Royce-”
“What would you have done?”
“You mean because each time it was them or you?”
“Or my family,” Cable said. “I’m asking what you would have done? Two choices. Run or stand?”
“All right.” Vern paused. “But Duane. That’s something else.”
“I didn’t shoot your brother.”
“There’s no one else would have reason to.”
“Stay with one thing,” Cable said. “I didn’t shoot him.”
“Even after he rawhided you?”
“If I’d wanted to get back at him for that, I’d have used fists. I never felt a beating was a killing thing.”
“That could be true,” Vern said. “But how do I know it is?”
“Whether you believe it or not,” Cable answered, “your gun’s no bigger than mine is.” But he said then, “I told you before, I didn’t leave the house last night.”
“And if you didn’t do it-” Vern began.
“Why couldn’t it have been one of your own men?”
Vern shook his head. “Everybody was accounted for.”
Then it was Janroe, Cable thought, without any doubt of it. He said to Vern, “I can ask you the same kind of question.”
“You mean about your house? I never touched it.”
“Then it was Duane.”
“I know for a fact,” Vern said, “it wasn’t anyone from my place.”
“But you put Royce and Joe Bob on me.”
Again Vern shook his head. “They came on their own.”
“What about Lorraine?”
“I knew about that,” Vern admitted. “I should have stopped her.”
“What was the point of it?”
“Lorraine said wedge something between you and your wife. Split you up and you wouldn’t have a good reason to stay here.”
“Does that make sense to you?”
“I said I should have stopped her.”
“Vern, I’ve lived here ten years. We’ve been married for eight.”
Kidston nodded then, solemnly. “Bill Dancey said you had more reason to fight than I did.”
“What did you say?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I’ll tell you this,” Vern said. “I’d like to have known you at a different time.”
Cable nodded. “Maybe we would have gotten on. Even worked out this land thing.”
“Even that,” Vern said.
“I would have been willing to let you put some of your horses on my graze,” Cable said, “if it hadn’t started the way it did.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” Vern said.
But it could matter, Cable thought. “We were going to wait each other out,” Cable said. “But Royce and Joe Bob got into it. Then your brother. I wonder how this would have turned out if he were still alive.”
Vern was watching Cable closely. “I wish I could understand you. Either you had nothing to do with killing Duane, or else you’re some actor.”
“Like trying to understand why you brought Wy
“When a man’s killed,” Vern said, “it’s no longer a game or a personal contest. It was time to get you, with the best, surest way I had.”
“When the man’s your brother,” Cable said. “When Royce and Joe Bob were killed you went right on waiting.”
“I’ve been wrong,” Vern said, “maybe right from the begi
“Then in time you would have backed off,” Cable said, “if nothing had happened to Duane.”
“Well, with the war on I could look on you as an enemy. Kick you off your land and tell myself it was all right. But now that it’s over, I’m not sure about anything, not even my horse business. Though I might probably get a contract from the stage-line people when they start up-”
Cable stopped him. “What did you say?” He was staring at Vern intently. “About the war?”
“It’s over. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“When was it over?”
“A few days ago.”
“You knew it then?”
“We learned yesterday.” Vern seemed to frown, studying Cable’s expression. “Luz knew about it. She mentioned it when I talked to her a while ago.”
“Yesterday,” Cable said.
“She would have learned it yesterday.” Vern nodded.
And if she knew it, Cable thought, so did Janroe. Yesterday. Before Duane was killed. Janroe would have known. He must have known. But still he killed Duane. Could that be?
You could think about it, Cable thought, and it wouldn’t make sense, but still it could be. With anyone else there would be a doubt. But with Janroe there was little room for doubt. This was strange because he hardly knew the man.
But at the same time it wasn’t strange, not when he pictured this man who had lost his arm in the war and who had killed over a hundred Union prisoners. Not when he heard him talking again, insisting over and over that Vern and Duane should be killed. Not when he remembered the feeling of trying to answer Janroe. No, it wasn’t strange, not when he put everything together that he could remember about Janroe.
It could have been Janroe who tore up his house. It occurred to Cable that moment, but at once he was sure of it: Janroe trying to incite him, trying to make him angry enough to go after the Kidstons. Janroe wanting to see them-the enemy, or whatever they were to him-dead, but without drawing blame on himself.